On Being the Vagrant Writer

The Vagrant Writer. It’s a moniker I came up with the last month of college. I didn’t know what I was doing, or where I was going after that, but I had so many dreams. And like, every good Christian university student, I was sure God had destined me for greatness. So, I had this sort of an understood acceptance of an unknown journey.

I was not sure of much of anything in those days, and still am not. In the last decade, I have lived in more places than I can count, and held more low-paying unsatisfying jobs than I will ever care to remember. (Including the infamous eight jobs of 2008). I’ve lived on couches, and spent years living out of suitcases. I’ve called places ‘home, ‘ where I’ve only meant to stay a week. And, relationally, I have yet to find that ‘one and only.’

Philosophically, I have swung the pendulum. My ideas on God and life began as the confused and sardonic ramblings a cynical post-church kid on an intellectual search for truth. I looked for truth in everything from existentialist novels, Jack Kerouac inspired Zen, and internet conspiracy theories. Then for or a while, I pretended I found it in intercessory spiritual warfare buzzwords. But, none of it ever fit. And, so I continued on, a vagrant, a hodge podge theology pieced together through experiences and ideas. I still have yet to find my truth. That feeling of spiritual home, that resonates inside of me.

But, through it all, only one thing I know for certain-well, really two. I am a writer, and I am God’s. Beyond that, I am making it up as I go along. I am the vagrant writer. Wandering, ever searching, for home.